


Bukowski Boy

by sshhdonttellanyone



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Harry, Broken Heart, Harry-centric, I'm Bad At Tagging, Love, M/M, One Night Stands, Or starts happy then gets angst then a happy ending, Sexual Content, Shy Harry, they just can't seem to get their shit together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 08:02:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3802831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshhdonttellanyone/pseuds/sshhdonttellanyone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Zayn meet on a bus in Manchester. Harry is a shy 19 year old fresh to the city and Zayn changes his life. </p>
<p>Or...</p>
<p>The three times Zayn turned Harry's world upside down and the one time Harry flipped it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bukowski Boy

Harry walked in the café and shook out his hair to dry it a little, the raindrops falling on the folded newspaper under his arm, whilst scanning the room looking for _him_.  
"Harry!"  
He turned to the sound of his name being called and saw _him_. He felt his stomach flutter, his breath get ragged and suddenly everything but _him_ went into soft focus. He wished he didn't react like this, that his heart didn't summersault, that it didn't feel like life suddenly made sense, that the world didn't tilt on its axis. But he always had. _He_ would always have this affect on Harry. He couldn't even remember a time when he hadn't. 

It started with a bus journey. A night ride through Manchester on the drunk bus. Harry was a little nervous and unsure of himself. He'd only been in the city for three nights, and it was so different from home. Gemma had promised him it got easier, that he'd get used to the noise and the people and the pollution, but she'd always been more outgoing than him, more sociable and quicker to make friends.  
Harry was more the type to bury his head in a book, avoiding eye contact and praying no one sat in the seat next to him. Just what he was doing that night.  
"Bukowski? On the drunk bus at 3am? Really?"  
He heard a voice ask, and felt a body fold into the seat next to him, jostling him and making him scoot closer to the window.  
"It's the perfect time and place to read Bukowski," he whispered, not really wanting to draw attention to himself but not wanting to appear rude. He was his mothers son alright.  
"True. He'd approve of this debauched gaggle, sodden with alcohol fumes and the stench of lust. I'm not so sure he'd appreciate you hiding behind his work instead of joining in though."  
Harry felt his mouth twitch and turned to his fellow passenger for the first time.  
That's all it took. One look. One look for his life to be split in two. Before _him_ and after _him_.  
He couldn't speak. He couldn't think. He could barely breathe. All he could do was soak in the vision beside him.  
"Are you headed home Bukowski Boy?" The other boy asked thoughtful, his head cocked to the side in question.  
Harry could only nod.  
"Want to come back with me instead?"  
Again he nodded.  
"It's this stop," he smiled. 

They walked the five minutes to _his_ house, silent and still. Mostly.  
"You okay? With this I mean, just meeting a guy on the bus then going home with him."  
Harry could only nod again. He wished he could open his mouth and speak. Say some cool and perfect line that would make him a different person, would impress _him_. But that was never going to happen. Harry would never be that guy.  
"Alright. And I don't need to feel bad, like I'm taking advantage, because you were reading Bukowski, you're obviously not slow. Just the strong silent type. I can dig it."  
"Not strong," Harry finally managed to croak.  
"Or silent it would seem," he knocked Harry's shoulder with his, smiling at him. "Anything you want to ask me? My age, if I'm in uni, if I top or bottom. I dunno...My name maybe?"  
"Why? You're perfect. Why change that?"  
_He_ stopped dead, staring ahead, the orange glow from the street lights casting strange shadows across his face, making him seem like a different person.  
_He_ turned to Harry, "Well you just got a whole lot more interesting."

"So your theory is that anything I say would be a disappointment?" _He_ asked as he handed Harry a glass of Marbec.  
"No, that's not what I'm saying at all," Harry squirmed uncomfortably under _his_ intense gaze. He hadn't meant to say that earlier, but _he_ responded to it so well, thought it made Harry interesting and for once, just once, Harry wanted someone to think that about him. "What I mean is...to me, right now, you are perfection. I'm projecting all kinds of stuff on to you, I guess. Why ruin that with reality?"  
"But what if reality is the same? Or better?"  
"Then it doesn't matter and tomorrow and the next day and the next day I think about you. I cling to the hope that you'll call, I feel a fizz in my stomach every time I get a text-"  
"That sounds good?"  
"But you won't call, and then because it hurts I start to see you differently. You're no longer the man who was better than I could even dream up, but the guy who showed me that what I want is out there, is possible and just doesn't want me."  
"Why am I not calling though?"  
"You cruised me on the bus. This does not the beginning of a relationship make."  
"Okay, point taken. It's not like you said no though."  
"I didn't. I'm not being judgemental. Just saying that no one ends up with the person they agree to fuck within forty seconds of meeting them."  
"Oh say that again!"  
"What?"  
"The way you said fuck, it sounds so sinful coming from your sweet mouth."  
"Fuck." Harry said the word deliberately, projecting a confidence he wasn't actually feeling. Until _he_ spoke,  
"I should've asked you on a date."

"Tell me about myself then?" _He_ asked, coyly looking over the top of his wine glass.  
Harry understood straight away. _He >/I> wanted to know if he measured up, if he came at all close to Harry's idea of perfection._  
"You're an artist, which you obviously actually are, unless all of the art supplies are your flatmates. You're confident, but not arrogant just self assured. But there's also a softer side to you, a vulnerability that you don't show to just anyone, only those closest to you. So that when you let people in you're bestowing a gift that's rarity makes it all the more valuable. You've got a sister and adore her, would kill and be killed for her. She's your moon and your stars, you think you'll never love anyone as fiercely as you love her. But secretly you hope you will, that some man will show you that you were crazy to ever think that. You're close to your mum, but not so close as to be a mummy's boy. You've got a wicked sense of humour, and laugh freely. You care. About people and the planet, not just in a doing the recycling, or throwing your change in the charity box out of a sense of guilt way but going to protests and volunteering. Actual active caring, and you paint about how you see the world, about how beautiful it could be. It makes you a little sad sometimes, that the world isn't really like that, that there's so much selfishness and greed. You take care of your appearance but sometimes feel a bit guilty about it, because there's more important stuff, and your friends tell you it's silly, that you're allowed to care about yourself too. You're a loyal friend. They come to you for advice, they trust you with their lives, and it can be intimidating to outsiders with all the in-jokes, familiarity and shorthand that only comes from having so much shared history. But when I meet them, you make sure I'm included, make me feel like part of the gang. You aren't afraid to express yourself, you're honest about how you feel. You love music, have eclectic tastes and know lots about it, you read poetry, have read and enjoyed The Bell Jar, you've tried to read The Metamorphosis but just couldn't get into it which I'll tease you about and you adore Hunter S Thomas. When you love someone you become consumed by them. They invade your brain like an infection. And you love that. You don't play games. And you fuck like you mean it."  
"I'm-"  
"Don't. Don't do that."  
"I was just going to say I'm going to kiss you now."

Harry wasn't so sweet and innocent. He'd hooked up with men before, had one nighters. But not since Chris White kissed him at Gemma's 18th birthday party, backed him up against the wall, asked if he'd ever kissed a boy, never taking his eyes off Harry's mouth, and then brought his mouth in, kissing Harry like his life depended on it, had he gotten so involved in a snog. Never since had he felt such arousal, such rightness, from a simple kiss. The kiss with Chris had changed his life, had confirmed he was gay, had introduced him to a new way of kissing, kissing with intent rather than just for the sake of it. And _his_ kiss felt exactly the same. Maybe better.  
"God your mouth! It's always the quiet ones. Wanna come upstairs Bukowski Boy?"  
"Yes."  
"Wanna skip going up and fuck on the stairs?"  
"Fuck yeah!"  
"Jesus I was joking."

The bedroom he was lead into was pitch black. There was no time to do something as mundane as flick the light switch. They were too busy. Busy hands dancing across bare skin, clothes being pulled off and dropped to the floor. Busy mouths connecting in desperate need.  
"Have to touch you. Die if I don't."  
Finally as they fell back onto the bed they were naked, their bodies flush.  
"Shit you're beautiful. Next time I pray I'm going to have to give thanks to Bukowski."  
Harry was sure his blush could be seen even in the dark.  
Agile and elegant fingertips lingered over his abs, trailing down to where he most wanted them. He was desperate to wrap his own hand around the hard cock pressing against his thigh. He'd never wanted anyone more.  
When the stranger's hand folded around him, Harry registered the most needy noise he'd ever heard. It took a second to realise it was him making it.  
"Want you in my mouth," he begged.  
"Feel free. You don't have to ask."  
Harry dropped to his knees and scooted the other guy to the edge of the bed. He knew he was good at this, made sure he was; hopeless overachiever that he'd always been. He licked and kissed teasingly at the head, working the length achingly slowly with his hand. The moans that fell from the other boys lips spurred him on, sped him up, made him go a little deeper every time. Until he was hitting the back of Harry's throat. The thick saliva from back there made the whole thing easier and much messier. Hands were in his hair, guiding him, the slight tug making him smile around the member betwixt his lips. As Harry ran his fingers over the boys balls he felt them tighten.  
"Shit, gonna come if you don't stop. Wanna come in you not like this."

He was back on the bed, fingers inside him, prepping him. He loved the feeling. Full and being stretched out. Every time the boy crooked his fingers, pressed against Harry's prostate he felt like he might pass out. It was just so intense. His cock was leaking against his stomach, and it was now Harry who was on the edge, just from his fingers.  
"I'm so ready. Fuck me. I want you inside me."  
"Shit!" _He_ removed his fingers, making Harry feel empty but he soon felt a light pressure at his entrance and hands gripping his hips as his lover positioned himself.  
"Is this okay? Face to face? I want to be able to see your face. Want to kiss you." _He_ sounded so shy, like what he was asking for was kinky or dirty. Which, Harry supposed it kinda was. Genuine intimacy in a situation like this was unusual, it could feel forced and disingenuous. But Harry felt connected to this stranger. And he wanted it too. Wanted so very badly to look at _his_ face as _he_ entered him. So he smiled shyly and nodded. He got a smile in return, a thumb stroking him gently with such tenderness as he felt this beautiful man start to push into him.  
And that's when Harry was forever lost. Ruined for every other man. He'd never felt like this. Never had a man look at him like that. Like he was seeing his soul.  
They moved together, hips in perfect sync, eyes focused, lips meeting in breathy pants, holding hands around Harry's dick as they worked it together. He was almost there, so close, "My name is Zayn," he whispered in his ear and Harry unraveled. 

"Who am I then Zayn?" Harry asked because he wanted to say his name again. Just because he could. They were laying on top of the bed, a sheet loosely covering them, their legs intertwined, fingers trailing over skin, just wanting to touch each other's bodies. Zayn had lit some candles and the way he looked in the soft yellow light was beyond belief. Harry felt like he was looking at the personification of music, of a beautiful song, a melody that seeped into you're consciousness and stayed forever.  
"You're the most intriguing person I've met in years. So why don't you tell me?"  
"I'm Harry."  
"Pleasure to meet you Harry."  
"I'd say the pleasure is all mine but I think we're looking at a 50/50 split here," he teased. Zayn's answering smile, all teeth and tongue and crinkled eyes, made his heart stutter.  
"Very very true. Tell me about yourself? Please?"  
"My surname is Styles, I'm nineteen. I'm from Cheshire, I moved to Manchester four days ago now," he nodded after glancing at the clock on Zayn's bedside table, "for uni and because my sister lives here. I'm going to be studying English Lit and music. I write. Obsessively. Music, lyrics, poetry-"  
"That's ridicularse sexy. You do know that right? What do you play?" Zayn interrupted.  
"Thanks," Harry's cheeks flushed with pride. "Guitar. I'm not very good, but I'm alright. I always carry a notebook and pen, which my sister, Gemma, teases me about. She reckons I should just use the note app on my phone but I need the feel of pen on paper, it's weird I guess but the act of writing, of putting ink on paper, makes it feel real. I must sound nuts."  
"Not at all. I feel the same about painting, like the thought isn't complete until I've committed it to paper or canvas. Then and only then I can let it go. It no longer belongs to me but to the world. Shit that sounds pretentious! You know what I mean though right?" Zayn asked in a way that showed he was sure Harry did know. Like he had no doubt that Harry got it.  
"I absolutely do."  
"Do you have a notebook with you now?"  
"Always."  
"Write me something? Just a hiku or a limerick or anything. It doesn't have to be about me, but it's got to be _for me._ And I'll draw you something."  
Harry was torn. He hated sharing his writing with anyone, aside from his old A-level teacher (who's gentle encouragement and support gave him the confidence to shyly admit he wanted to be a writer. Mr Turner's words in reply had been perfect; "But Harry, you already are."). The thought of showing his writing to this gorgeous man was terrifying. But he desperately wanted to see Zayn's work. To take a piece of him with him when he left. Something he could keep and look at when the memory of this night started to fray around the edges and fade.  
"Okay. You've got a deal."

Harry shyly tore out the page and handed it to Zayn, unable to meet his gaze. He'd considered using something he'd written in the past, a poem about the nature of beauty (he'd been going through his romantics phase) he'd worked on a year ago that he was hesitantly proud of, but he didn't want to cheat Zayn. He'd stipulated that whatever Harry wrote it had to be for him, an original work that, although Zayn hadn't said it, Harry knew he'd never reuse or rework. It was to be for Zayn and only Zayn's eyes. A gift. A gift that he saw straight away meant just as much to the recipient as it did the giver. As Zayn's eyes followed the wording on the page, he saw them start to brim with tears.  
"Harry! This is amazing. Truly amazing. Did you really just think this up?"  
"Not really. I guess I've been _feeling_ the words since I saw you. The second I sat down to write they came. You like it?"  
"It's the most beautiful and honest thing I've ever read. Thank you so much," apparently the thank you didn't feel enough, didn't do justice to the depth of Zayn's gratitude, so he kissed Harry. Not the feverish longing of their first kiss, not the frantic kisses as they undressed or the pants into each other's mouths as they fucked but a soft kiss that said so much and made Harry feel on fire. Not the raging fire of arousal but a slow burn that told him this meant more than just satisfying a carnal desire. This kiss wasn't about sex. This kiss was about emotion.  
When they parted the lads smiled shyly at one another before laughing.  
"I'm afraid your drawing is shit in comparison. I'm embarrassed to give you it but a deal is a deal. Just don't expect anything great okay?"  
"I bet I love it."  
And as he took in the drawing Zayn handed him he was proved correct.  
It was a charcoal sketch of a back, the delicate curve of the spine leading up to an elegant neck.  
"It's gorgeous," Harry breathed. "Can I really keep it?"  
"'Course it's gorgeous. It's you. It was the view I had whilst I was leaning on the headboard and you were writing sitting between my legs."

"This was- okay for once words are failing me. Thank you Zayn." Harry kissed Zayn one last time before heading down the garden path.  
"Bukowski Boy? Wait!"  
Zayn came bounding down to him on his tiptoes, his bare feet cold on the morning dew covered grass. Harry felt his spirits raise. Zayn was going to stop him, stop him from disappearing from his life forever.  
"I didn't sign your drawing. Can I have it and your pen?"  
Harry's heart sank, and he was glad to be able to root in his bag, certain Zayn would see the hurt and disappointment in his eyes.  
"Turn round," Zayn instructed when Harry handed the requested items over. Using Harry's back to rest on he felt Zayn scribble.  
"There," he was spun around and kissed again. "This has been unforgettable. Goodbye Harry Styles."  
Once again he couldn't speak, he didn't trust his voice not to crack, instead just waggling his fingers, stuffing the drawing back into his bag, and with his head down he walked quickly from Zayn's garden and life.

The tears came on the bus. Hot fat silent tears ran down his cheeks and made his vision blurry. "You fucking idiot," he murmured to himself, angrily wiping at his eyes. He needed to write. To clear the fog that were his thoughts. As he reached into his bag his fingers brushed against the thick paper of Zayn's sketch. One little look, he thought, just a quick peek. He pulled it out and smoothed it down on his lap. That's when he noticed it. Zayn hadn't only signed the sketch. There next to his signature where the four most glorious words in the English language _'One night isn't enough'_ followed by a mobile number.  
Harry's joyful laughter caused several people to stare. But he no longer cared.


End file.
